


Hutton

by poisontaster



Series: AKB Outtakes [3]
Category: Actor RPF, CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Hutton has been losing.  And when Lord Hutton loses, he drinks. Takes place in 1995.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hutton

It's unseemly for a slave to rock in place, a sign of lax discipline and bad training. It's worse at a time like this, when his every flinch and reaction can betray his master. Jensen's better trained than that and better disciplined, but he's never felt so twitchy under his skin before, never had such a hard time maintaining the calm stillness of his trade. 

Lord Hutton has been losing. And when Lord Hutton loses, he drinks. Well. He drinks more. He'd been well on his way before he'd even sat down at the table and now he's tumble-haired and glitter-eyed, the throat of his shirt unbuttoned to show the glisten of sweat in the hollow of his throat. A shine picked up more sharply by the links twined around and between his fingers. 

Jensen's collar. 

Jensen's throat burns with its absence and he wants to put his hands up to touch, to feel the thin line of naked skin. He doesn't let his hands stir from his thighs, tightly clamped at each joint, his face a dolly-blank as Lord Hutton throws it on the pile. 

Jensen knows some of the men around the table, Lord Hutton's fellows and fellow poker enthusiasts; some he only knows by type. Property, it's nothing to him if Lord Hutton chooses to sell him—chooses to offer him as a bet in this latest hand of poker. 

Telling himself this, however, doesn't quiet the hard, grumbling pinch in his stomach, churning acid and clenching muscle. Because Lord Hutton has been losing. All night. All week, for that matter, each loss like a star of broken glass in Lord Hutton's heel, making him irritable and raw and goading him into bigger and greater chances to try and recoup what he's lost. 

Mostly, they don't care about him, the men at the table; he's no different than the brightly colored chips or the few dollars, no different than the diamond crusted Fendi watch Lord Gandolfini is peeling from his wrist in anticipation of his own bet. Though… Lord Gandolfini is one of the others, the ones that do look at Jensen; look at him with a greed greater than just the craving for victory over Jensen's master and Lady Luck. 

Jensen doesn't much like the look of Lord Gandolfini's boy, either, barely old enough to be fucked and a secretive, sullen face. _He_ looks at Jensen with naked, rabid hate, undoubtedly aware of what Lord Gandolfini thinks about Jensen when he stares at him the way he does. 

After Lord Kilmer, Jensen knows. Knows those hot, wet eyes, knows the sear of the thoughts that make a man's eyes look like that. And he's got a pretty good idea of what will happen to him, if Lord Gandolfini wins this hand. 

Which he very well might. Masters Busfield and Livingston have already folded; Jensen suspects Master Navarro is bluffing and will drop out on the next round. That leaves Master Facinelli, Madame Manheim and Lord Gandolfini, any of whom could walk out of here with Jensen in their wake like the obedient slave he is. 

Jensen hasn't prayed since he was a little kid, since before he was sold. He can remember kneeling with his mom(my), but he can't remember what it felt like, to pray. He can't remember how it all went, so there's just this vague, dread-full refrain of _please, please_ going through his mind without shape, without direction. 

He feels like it's already there, already happening; the moment someone else padlocks the chain around his throat, the moment he walks out with someone who's not the same someone he walked in with, not the same someone who held him and fucked him this morning and whispered _I love you, I love you Jensen; I'll love you forever, my sweet, pretty boy._

Jensen feels like he's stuck in that moment, an eternal, repetitive loop of horrible realization…and that's when Lord Hutton flips over both his hole cards and takes the pot.

"Oh, God, did you see that?" In the elevator on their way back up to their room, Lord Hutton drags Jensen close, kissing him with dizzying wildness. His mouth is bitter with scotch and the faintly tarry flavor of cigars, his skin fever-hot. 

Jensen feels like he should be relieved. He _is_ relieved: throbbing, shaking waves that feel like sickness, like the sear and freeze of dry ice in his belly, but other than these obvious, physical symptoms, it feels like nothing. _He_ feels like nothing, all the sick worry he felt in that close, sweaty room emptied out. He thinks of the sketches Lord Kilmer made of him, the ones where Jensen is built from negative space, a white void in endless fields of layered black. 

"I was fucking _magnificent_!" The glitter in Lord Hutton's eyes is now triumph, a pyrite sparkle that won't last nearly long enough but that's nearly blinding now. Lord Hutton presses Jensen into the suite door, presses the thickness of his cock into Jensen's hip, his fingers slipping down Jensen's cheek to tangle in his collar chain. "God, they never saw it coming, those fucks. And I just laid. It. Down. Gahh!" He kisses Jensen again, hard, excited, making Jensen's lips ache and his jaw stretch wide. 

The response of Jensen's cock is mostly automatic rather than based on any actual need. Not that what Jensen needs is any part of the equation. His needs are irrelevant and, if he were better, they'd be nonexistent. 

God, Jensen wishes he was better.

"Open the door, babe," Lord Hutton whispers between kisses. "I want to fuck you senseless and then we're going to order room service. I'm going to get a steak as big as my head!"

Obediently, Jensen fishes in Lord Hutton's pocket, skimming his fingers across his master's cock before he takes hold of the hard rectangle of plastic. Lord Hutton tilts Jensen's head back against the wood and sucks bruises into his throat while Jensen fumbles blindly for the mechanism, twisting to jam the key into the slot. That he actually manages to get the key into the lock seems like a miracle and the thunk of the lock shifting is a shock. Though not as big a shock as when Jensen's hip compresses the latch and they go tumbling-stumbling through. 

There's a long, teetering moment where Jensen thinks they might manage to keep their feet, but he's again underestimated how loose Lord Hutton gets when he's won and he's blotto. Off-balance, Jensen doesn't stand a chance against his master's taller, heavier, drunken weight and they go crashing down, carpet burning Jensen's elbows even through his shirt. With his tutelage from Lord Kilmer, though, the sting of pain and the crush of his master's weight on top of him only makes the moment sharper, sweeter. 

Lord Hutton is laughing, soft, helpless giggles like Jensen hasn't heard in some time and _now_ he feels some of the relief he was groping for before. 

"Oh, God." Lord Hutton sighs, sounding as deeply sated as if he'd already fucked Jensen as he rolls to the side. Lord Hutton sprawls on his back, panting a little with exertion and reminding Jensen that his master isn't well. Lord Hutton scratches vaguely at Jensen's hip. "Pour me a drink, Jens. In fact, make it a double. I am freaking thirsty."

Jensen's knees hurt from the long hours at the table, his elbows ache from the fall, but he gamely scoots upright, going to the mini-bar. Lord Hutton lifts his head to squint owlishly at Jensen. "And take off your clothes, while you're at it. I want to look at you." Lord Hutton's voice deepens, roughens. "So goddamn pretty. And you're mine. All mine. Ha! Twice over, if you think about it."

Jensen jags the bottle against the rock glass's lip, an involuntary tremor. At once, he looks into the mirror to see if Lord Hutton's noticed. But Lord Hutton isn't on the floor anymore, he's behind Jensen, reaching around to undo the buttons on Jensen's shirt. 

"I'm happy to undress for your pleasure, Master," Jensen says, possibly unwisely. Lord Hutton has his cheek against the curve of Jensen's head, dark hunger in his eyes as he watches his hands reveal more of Jensen's body by the second. 

"No, I changed my mind." Hutton takes the glass from Jensen's nerveless fingers, drains it, then goes back to what he was doing, tugging the wrinkled and skin-warmed cotton from Jensen's widening shoulders. "Who could resist touching this body?"

Lord Hutton's been chewing his nails again; Jensen feels it as his master scrawls them lightly up his torso, tugging lightly at both Jensen's nipples, hardening them to pouts. "Pour me another."

Jensen's hands are shaking worse as he grabs another two bottles from the arrayed rows. He frowns at his fingers, puzzled and irritated by himself. 

"You know that it was all a trick, right, babe?" Lord Hutton gnaws the words into the back of Jensen's neck as he unbuckles Jensen's belt, letting the ends droop free. "I had that hand in the bag. You know I would've never bet _you_ on anything less than a sure thing."

"Of course." 

Lord Hutton abandons Jensen's fly to force Jensen around to face him instead. Jensen feels himself scalding pink with blush, aware that his answer must not have sounded suitably certain. He knows Lord Hutton would never do it, but he should be beaten for his lack of faith. Of course Lord Hutton knows what he's doing. 

"Jensen." The tenderness in Lord Hutton's voice is almost worse than if his master had taken a belt to him. "You know that you're gonna be mine forever, right?" Lord Hutton crooks his finger under Jensen's chin, tips his head up so that their eyes meet. "I love you, babe. I love you like I've never loved anyone, free or slave. And I'll always take care of you."

Jensen wants to bow his head, but the light pressure of Lord Hutton's finger keeps him immobile, in place. "Yes, Master. I know. Thank you. Thank you for loving me. I love you so much." That, at least, is nothing but the full and naked truth; it's no hardship and no effort to make it sound sincere, his voice trembling with rawness. "I love you so much," Jensen repeats, chest and his eyes aching with the hugeness of it. 

Lord Hutton smiles, clear and sweet and heated as the Los Angeles sun emerging from the clouds. "Good." His hands frame Jensen's face and his thumbs caress across Jensen's cheek, more kindness than Jensen deserves. "That's so good." His fingers slip down to alight on Jensen's shoulders. "You want to show me, baby?" Lord Hutton asks, only the barest pressure on the bone to urge Jensen to his knees. Jensen goes easily, willingly, his mouth already turning wet with saliva. "Show me. Show me how much you love me. And then I'll show you how I love you. Show me, baby. Show me."


End file.
